Eddie manages an Italian chain restaurant in Pocatello—a small, unexceptional American city that is slowly being paved over with strip malls and franchises. But he can’t serve enough Soup, Salad and Breadstick Specials to make his hometown feel like home. Against the harsh backdrop of Samuel D. Hunter’s Idaho, this heartbreaking comedy is a cry for connection in an increasingly lonely American landscape.
Scenic Design Lauren Helpern
Costume Design Jessica Pabst
Lighting Design Eric Southern
Sound Design Matt Tierney
Production Stage Manager Lisa Ann Chernoff
Special thanks to the Blanche and Irving Laurie Foundation for its generous support of Pocatello.
Pocatello is the recipient of an Edgerton Foundation New American Plays award.
Watch what Sam's got to say about the show, his love of a certain Italian chain restaurant, and bringing Idaho to New York City.
I grew up in a town in Idaho of about 20,000 people (big for Idaho, small for almost everywhere else). One hundred fifty years ago, my great-great grandfather was the first postmaster there, and 15 years ago, I was a cashier at the local Walmart, my first high school job. My relationship to my hometown is just that—existing somewhere in the tension between small-town pride and parking-lot desolation. And this tension has been working its way into my writing ever since I left.
The Great American Family play looms large in our theater history. Some might argue it is its starting point: Long Day’s Journey into Night, Death of a Salesman, Awake and Sing. Arthur Miller’s seminal 1956 essay, “The Family in Modern Drama,” acknowledges this primacy. Yet the essay also observes that, even in 1956, the realistic American family play was beginning to encounter some resistance. Part of this resistance is stylistic, as evidenced by the poeticism of The Glass Menagerie or Our Town. But the resistance was also social. The notion of the ’50s nuclear family was already just a myth in the ’50s. The father figures in The Glass Menagerie or A Raisin in the Sun are long gone, and the offspring in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf never arrives. By 1988, as if to amend his earlier essay, Miller observed in an interview, “Nowadays the family is broken up, and people don't live in the same place for very long.” However, the American drama still wrestles with the specter of family, even as its social and stylistic permutations become increasingly varied.
In October, 1929, W.K. Henderson, a wealthy Shreveport businessman who inherited his father’s company, got fed up with the rapid proliferation of chain stores in his hometown and went on air at the local radio station KWKH. “American people, wake up!,” he cried. We can whip these chain stores. We can whip the whole cock-eyed world when we are right... I know the chain store game. I’ll be your leader. I’ll whip hell out of them if you will support me. We can drive them out in thirty days if you people will stay out of their stores.”
In August, with rehearsals for Pocatello still a few months away, I spent a week with Sam Hunter on the Estonian island of Hiiumaa, where he was workshopping a new play at the Baltic Playwrights Conference. At the end of the week, on a bus back to the mainland ferry, Sam caught me up on what he’s been up to since The Whale played at PH in 2012, and how distance has informed his idea of home.